


keep up

by droppingdroplets



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sibling Bonding, Trauma, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28160103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/droppingdroplets/pseuds/droppingdroplets
Summary: In the aftermath of the Butcher's army, Technoblade and Tommy try to move forwards and find peace, both with each other and themselves.
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 668





	keep up

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Vague references to suicidal thoughts (brought up in both description and conversation), panic attacks and other such canon-typical aspects relevant to Tommy's current emotional arc.

When the night falls, Techno keeps watch until morning.

There’s not much to see; not much has changed, except everything, and he’s still trying to see where it's all settled in the aftermath. Flurries of snow; burying any trace of footprints in the snow. A handful of wheat; placed instead of a missing potion. Memories of yellow; of ruffled hair and made-up lullabies, of fairytales and mythologies, of lessons learnt and lessons taught – of _red_. Tommy, sleeping under the floorboards.

Every so often, at timed intervals of ten, twenty, thirty minutes, his ear flicks and he makes a mental note of every sound: the flicker of flames reduced to barely more than an ember, the panting of a running wind, the wanderings of monsters who catch a glance of him in the window and reluctantly walk away. He has to strain to hear Tommy – something about that doesn’t sit right – but his brother is unmistakably present, snoring, quiet and restless.

He doesn’t make note of what the voices say, their absent wondering the closest to sleepwalking he’s ever had in his life. He listens, because he has to; he lets the sound become background noise: _why don’t we just go hunt them down? - I don’t see anything –_ _creeper to the left_ _– do you think he’s okay?_

There’s a notch on the frame of his window, the puncture of a claw-mark from where he’d watched the ghost of his brother point with a smile. Techno retraces it now, slightly mournful of his house gaining scars, following it like a compass. If anyone returns, they’ll be likely to take a different route, but he knows without a doubt they’ll be coming from that direction.

If anyone returns he’ll be waiting for them, with a freshly sharpened pickaxe and a mug of cooling hot chocolate.

He hasn’t seen anything for hours. He doesn’t expect anything for days. Hope is bittersweet in his mouth; he’s worried his lip raw and focuses on the taste of blood, just in case.

He doesn’t see anything, but half an hour later his brother goes silent. Techno’s patient, he waits until he hears the whisper of footsteps, then turns just enough to allow his brother to come into his periphery.

Tommy meets his gaze like a startled rabbit, frozen where he stands. He’s wearing one of the winter cloaks as a blanket, one foot raised to tiptoe backwards.

“Tommy.” Techno says, when the silence dares to settle between them. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

Tommy blinks. Something about his posture shifts, and then his brother looks more like himself. Almost sounds like it, even, when he says, “Thought _you_ were supposed to be sleeping, isn’t that what people are supposed to do eventually?”

“If that’s true, what makes you think eventually equates to _now_?”

“You didn’t sleep yesterday.” Tommy says, an accusation buried between the words. “And you didn’t sleep the day before that either, except for that little bit in the morning -”

Techno shakes his head, turning his attention back to the window. In the glass, his brother’s reflection frowns at him, “You don’t know my sleeping habits, Tommy.”

“’Cause you don’t have any,” Tommy says, taking a small step forwards. “Do you? This doesn’t seem like a sleeping kind of habit, this seems like a Technoblade-being-an-ominious-bastard kind of habit and I _definitely_ know that. If there’s any sleeping habit you have, it’d be avoiding sleep. Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Well, Tommy, when people try to kill you they don’t really stop with an attempt that doesn’t manage to finish you off.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Why aren’t _you_ asleep?” Techno asks, his ear flicking once more. His brother’s weight shifts as he shivers with every brush of wind against the house, unsettled in the midst of it.

Tommy doesn’t answer. Five minutes pass. Then ten; Techno watches Tommy’s gaze skitter and follows it in his mind’s eye: the chest tucked in the corner, the pictures decorating the walls, the trapdoor he’d propped open against the wall. Techno’s about to repeat the question; Tommy speaks up first.

“Can I stay?” Tommy asks. He’s never had to before. His voice is quiet, tone resigned, his hands clasping the blanket around his shoulders like a shield over his heart. “I can take it over for you,” He offers, looking away as Techno turns to face him properly. “I used to… back at Logsted. I could…”

Techno doesn’t answer, at first, struggling for something to say. In the end he forgoes the words, shuffling over to make room at the windowsill. Tommy waits, as though he’s expecting Techno to change his mind, then takes the space left for him in such a hurry Techno barely sees him move until he’s already settled in.

“You don’t gotta keep watch for me,” Techno says, because a closer look at his brother paints an ugly picture of bruised eyes and an exhaustion that goes beyond sleepless nights. Of a nightmare awake in the senses, of times and places that refuse to be laid to rest. “I’ve got this.”

“Oh,” Tommy sounds. His voice cracks, split between disappointment and relief. “But I can stay?”

“Yes, Tommy.” Techno says, “You can stay. Even if you’re planning to steal from me, I’m not gonna kick you out and let you take my shit.”

“You don’t even have the good shit anymore,” Tommy says, a strained smile on his face. It’s quick to fall. “Is that what you’re looking for? The people that took things from you?”

His weapons are a part of him, he wants to argue. His life’s work wasn’t taken from him, it was handed back before he was ready and now he holds onto it with nothing better to do with his hands. A compass sits alone, lost, despite being found. “Yes,” Techno says, a half-truth.

Tommy seems to understand, staring in the same direction without having to think twice about it – and yet it seems accidental, looking at something far away rather than anything he might see if he dares to focus. “Do you really think anyone will be coming back?”

“I don’t want to take any chances,” Techno shrugs.

Tommy doesn’t answer that. Together they look out the window, though Techno suspects they’re not seeing the same thing. Ten minutes and Tommy’s breathing starts to change, copying his brother’s. Twenty and it starts its own pattern, as Tommy’s eyes fall shut. Thirty and Techno moves to let him rest against the wall, trying to find an answer in pale skin and a thin form, trying to find the right question between the lines echoing in his head.

Something is wrong, he knows that much. But he knows how to break people, not fix them – his brother reminds him of that every time he brings up the withers, that even his help is made for bloodshed.

This is new territory – just as his home had started to become familiar. Techno sighs, but adapts as best he can, testing the boundary of familiarity. He keeps watch until morning rises; until the only sign of what had once been are the memories left behind, a dream wide awake in his mind. He looks from the window to his brother and tries to map the path that has led them both here. Not much changes throughout the night.

He doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

<>

  
  


They don’t talk about it in the morning. Every time they get close something gets in the way – food, warmth, checking and double-checking what they’ve been left with, distractions and deflections, themselves and each other. Tommy wakes surprised, but he’s come to expect it. He’s not sure if he expects to be back at Logstedshire or back at L’manburg; he just knows he doesn’t expect to be _here_.

He doesn’t wake alone. Even before he sits up, stiff muscles protesting as he flees the cold creeping in through the window, he can hear the familiar rhythm of footsteps going back and forth. They’re above him, louder than he’s used to. It takes him a few minutes to remember he’d left his basement under the basement, a few more to pull himself to his feet. Standing does nothing to soothe the disorientation making him stumble; the white roof of his tent now a carpet of snow outside, the uneven terrain of dirt and stone now a smooth tundra of plank floors. He pinches himself, just to make sure he’s awake.

“Tommy.” Techno says, string tangled in his fingers where he’s threading it between pages of paper. “Go get something to eat and some sticks to heat it up on the fire. It’s time to start planning.”

Tommy’s feet are moving before he’s even aware of it. He pauses, well aware of his brother’s gaze on his back, and turns in time to catch a snapshot of his reflection in the window. He tries to make sense of it; unable to tell if he was being included in the planning or kept out of the way of it. All he can voice is a confused, “Isn’t it time for _breakfast?”_

“We can do both,” Techno says. “I’ll take notes, you eat; the sooner we get started, the better. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” Tommy says. “Sure.”

The house is humble; it’s all it can do to keep them close together. Techno pretends not to notice the way Tommy stares at the food for far longer than he should, paralysed with indecision at the sight of more than he’s imagined in days. Tommy pretends not to notice the way Techno avoids the windows, keeping his make-shift book pressed against his chest as though he’s afraid anything written on them will spill on the floor if he’s not careful.

Something is different, for better or for worse.

“So,” Techno says, when they reconvene in front of the fire. Tommy stares into it – watching him eat is painful, like he’s forgotten how to taste but can’t forget how to starve. Techno looks away, choosing instead to focus on wielding his pen. “I’m gonna need all my items back.”

Tommy nods, slight and slow. “Right. Well, we’ve already started with that, haven’t we?”

“Started,” Techno agrees. “But not finished.”

“Unfinished business,” Tommy laughs. “Seems like I’ve started a trend.”

Techno shoots him a look. Tommy’s too busy staring at his hands, relaxing and tensing his fingers around a bowl, watching the curve of the wood conform to the light cast by the flames nearby. He makes a note – a mental one – then moves along, “Since they’ve decided to keep it spread between each other, we need to figure out what we’re looking for first.”

Tommy makes a sound of confusion, “We’re not just looking for everything?”

“No, we are.” Techno corrects. “But since it’s divided between them we’ve gotta prioritise. I’d rather not risk another all-out fight against them, we’re in no position to do that. We’ve got to gain ground against them, which means we’ve got to decide where we wanna go.”

Tommy nods, following along. “Okay. I mean, I can’t exactly go anywhere, so I don’t know why you’re telling this to me.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to hear that you’re not getting too far into your own head,” Techno shrugs, lowering his pen to rest his chin on his hand and watch his brother carefully. “What do you mean you can’t go anywhere?”

Tommy tries to shake the eyes off his back, turning with a bitter look when he fails. “I’m _exiled_ , they’re gonna kill me if I go anywhere!”

“They tried to kill me earlier,” Techno points out. “That threat’s the only thing they can use to stop you, and it’s proven to be very ineffective.”

“You’re not really exiled, though. You’re _wanted_.”

There’s a way he says that word that’s at odds with the rest of his sentence. “Yeah, _dead_ , Tommy. They wanted to kill me. Can’t get near under the threat of death, that’s the same thing.”

Tommy hums, “I guess.”

Techno feels rather unprepared. He’d had plans prepared for when Tommy tried to start fighting him – not for _this._ “Do you… want to go back?”

“Yes,” Tommy says immediately. He hesitates, “Maybe… right now, there’s not really a reason, is there? I’m gonna be honest, Techno, there’s not much I can do to help you. It’s _your_ stuff.”

Techno stays quiet.

Tommy puts his bowl aside, turns away from the fireplace, and finally regards Techno with suspicion, “Why are you talking about any of this with me anyway? Is this because _I_ stole your stuff? Are you trying to say something by saying something entirely different? Are you trying to guilt-trip –”

“Tubbo has my trident.” Techno says, simple, precise. Uncalculated.

Tommy’s shoulders coil like a bowstring, raising to shield his ears and muffle those words, lips parted in a wordless exclamation until all of Techno’s expectations Tommy’s reaction becomes filtered down into a mere, strangled, “ _Oh.”_

“We need the mobility,” Techno says, slowing his words to such a pace that Tommy can still keep up despite his obvious stumbling. “If we take something, they’ll catch on and start putting actual work into defending it. We’ll have more time to act and less time to waste if we get it first.”

“You’re going to kill him again,” Tommy says, sounding horrified.

“That’s not in my plan -”

“Oh, did you plan it the first time, then?”

“ _Tommy_.” Techno snaps, and falters when Tommy surrenders his words with a choked breath, all the fight gone like a spark sputtering out. He breathes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to kill him. I never wanted to kill him. Believe me or not, that’s your choice. Help me or not, that’s your choice. But you better stand by whatever you pick.”

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says. They both know the accusation isn’t what he’s apologising for. “You don’t want to kill him?”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Techno agrees. “Even though he killed _me_.”

Tommy shakes his head, “I-I don’t understand. I can’t...”

“Is there a place you know that Tubbo would hide something?” Techno says, pulling the conversation back on track before they both get lost in a history better left behind. “I can make a map and you mark a place, or we can look in places he goes to often…”

Tommy’s gone whiter than the snow, tear-tracks of red spilling from where his nails have dug into the palms of his hands. Techno stops, ink blotting on the page as he finds himself just as frozen, watching the pieces of his brother shatter like shards of a mirror, “I don’t know. Techno, I-I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Techno’s quick to say. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he’s learnt the lesson of sentencing first and judging later, even if it’s from the mistakes of others. “What don’t you know, Tommy?”

“I don’t remember where the places are,” Tommy says. “I _know…_ I know that there are places – there’s that chest, with a patch of birch-wood because I thought it’d be funny and he’d think of me each time he saw it, but I don’t… I don’t remember where it is. It doesn’t – I can’t think of it in my head – I can’t – I don’t understand _.”_

Wilbur’s ghost is an ember of a ruined time; a sheer white dulled to a faint yellow. Tommy’s a bright red darkening as his blood-stained hands tug at his hair, shaking his head in panicked denial.

“Do you think he built the walls in the same place?” Tommy asks with a note of hysteria. “It looks the same to me. I don’t know anymore.”

“Tommy,” Techno says, calmer than he feels, afraid he’s calling for someone who isn’t there. Tommy looks at him: away, then back; away, back, away, back – as if he’s waiting for some sort of terrible blow. He gasps against his arms, terrible, incomplete cries of pain. The past may be a scar still forming, but the present is raw and bleeding into the future. “We can figure it out later, you don’t have to know right now. We have options, Tommy – can you focus on the sound of my voice?”

Tommy nods miserably. Techno overwrites the words in front of him with passing thoughts; unfinished plans and retold stories. He talks about nothing and everything, until Tommy reaches out to reclaim his bowl and pass it between them.

“No.” Techno decides, without having to think about it. “I’m not taking that, if you’ve finished with it go wash it yourself.”

Tommy stares at him for a moment, then at the bowl. His frown shifts from devastated to wary; the transformation is painful to watch, let alone experience. “Now?”

“No time like the present. We can keep talking – about something else, if you’d like. We can come back to… this later.”

“Okay,” Tommy says. He wanders over to the sink in a daze, but finds himself in the mundane motions that don’t require him to think or feel. He does anyway; the water lapping at his hands, the timing of the cloth being pushed and pulled. A sense of progression, of completion. His cheeks are burning. He doesn’t understand, but there’s a strange sense of being understood. “… Thank you. I think.”

Techno snorts, breathlessly with a sigh of relief. “Child labour really does have its benefits.”

A spark strikes back into existence, pulled to the surface by a twitch of a smile, “Oh, fuck off, Techno.”

“No, that’s our plan for today.” Techno decides, returning to his book and opening it to the last pages. On it, he begins to write, “I don’t want you terrorizing the locals –“

“Actually, I’m such a delight I could get you discounts.”

“– but we’ll be needing potions, and I’ll need to stock up on food so you don’t starve –“

“Are you even listening to me or are you too busy talking to yourself?”

“If you’re going to talk shit, I’m going to double your workload.” Techno threatens.

Tommy stares at him, “You’re giving me a job?”

“No,” Techno says, bemused. “There’s no way I’m being convinced to pay you.”

“ _Oi!”_ Tommy cries, abandoning the bowl in the water to flick water across the room as his brother. It’s rather ineffective, but he jabs a finger to reinforce his threat regardless. “I just won’t work for you then.”

“You’re not working for me,” Techno laughs. “You’re working _with_ me. Yes or no?”

“Depends.” Tommy tries. “What’s on your agenda, Technoblade?”

“First; sticks.”

“… Sticks?”

“Sticks are very useful, Tommy, the locals love them. Between us we can make more than enough to bleed the nearby village dry; that’ll cover our food expenses, maybe we can stock up on some arrows; if we stick around til dark we can get some bones and spider-eyes...”

“You’ve lost me,” Tommy says, as though he was trying very hard to listen in the first place. “I stopped listening as soon as you started talking.”

Techno takes a fortifying breath, bracing for the last standings of peace to fall to ruins. “Yes or no, Tommy?”

Tentatively, Tommy says,“I guess.” He’s quick to add, “Is this because you need me to talk to the locals for you?”

“If you’re offering, I’m not gonna say no. On the condition that you say nothing about me to those people; they better think we have nothing to do with each other.”

Tommy laughs, “I make no promises. Deal?”

Techno sighs, “Deal.”

<>

  
  


  
  


Snow trails behind Tommy, a close companion as he crosses the threshold.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime he’s not alone; he can hear the snort of laughter as he almost stubs his toe trying to kick out the snow that’s followed him in. Tommy curses under his breath the same time he cries a victory at coming out unscathed; he’s grown efficient with his voice, with his time – he has more of it to spare, now that he has company again.

Techno has a handful of gunpowder, wrapped in paper like a present. _For potions_ , he’d told Tommy earlier, and Tommy had returned to his memories to recall any proof from when he’d first arrived, only to find himself at a loss. He knows he’d taken a potion – Techno had mentioned it earlier in an off-handed comment – but which one it was doesn’t seem to matter all of a sudden. He can’t even remember if he still has it.

That’s okay; he’s used to losing things. He’s gaining enough to keep himself going. He doesn’t need a potion.

“Do you like Dream?” Tommy asks, out of the blue.

Techno stops from where he’s sorting their newly acquired supplies into the chests, turning to give him a searching glance. The scrutiny is familiar; Tommy squirms guiltily. “Well,” Techno starts. “… I can’t say that I _hate_ him. He hasn’t tried to kill me; he’s helped me, even. But I don’t trust him.”

Tommy nods. He’s not sure what answer he was waiting to hear, and startles himself when he speaks, “I don’t trust him either.”

“Good call,” Techno says. They linger in hesitant uncertainty for a moment, and then Techno puts the rest of the gunpowder away and seals it in the chest. The lock of it closes with a _click_ ; taking the rest of Tommy’s breath with it.

“But he was my friend.” Tommy says. He doesn’t know if he’s heard – it doesn’t matter. His chest feels like a foot is pressing on it, stamping out the words burning his throat. “He was my _only_ friend, and he _helped me_ ; nobody else was there, Techno, and none of _this_ feels real but what we had _does -”_

Smoke is in his lungs, suffocating as his heart paces restlessly, a ticking time-bomb in his chest. Tommy tries to get it out, clawing at his chest as the torches collapse and the ash falls; fire spilling onto the floor into an ocean of lava below his feet.

He can’t breathe. The world rings in his hears, a toll counting the things he’s lost, all the days he’s added to the tally, his history a broken record looping on itself.

“- Am I drowning?” Tommy can’t hear himself. He can’t _breathe_ . Is he going to wake up? He _wants_ to wake up; wants to be free of the cage that’s become his own mind, he wants – he wants – he -

A hand brackets his arm, pulling him away from himself. _Dream_ , Tommy thinks, preparing to be led to the edge and dangled over it.

A body mirrors his as they fall to the floor. _Wilbur_ , Tommy thinks, preparing himself for false comforts, for the world to collapse and to take his chest with it, to bury his heart until it rots before he can dig it out.

“Tommy.” A voice says. _Techno_ , Tommy realizes, a quiet murmur where he expects to hear a battle-cry.

“I miss him.” His words are tight: Tommy clings to them like a rope, the knot of a noose unravelling between them. Techno holds onto him, keeping him low to the ground until the smoke rises overhead and he finds the space to breathe again. “Isn’t that fucked up, Techno?”

“Yeah.” Techno admits. But then he waits, holding his breath as he holds Tommy in his arms until the calm comes, an inevitable quiet. “It is fucked up, Tommy, but that’s… can you even hear me?”

Tommy nods.

“Are you _listening_ to me?”

Tommy nods again, fervently when a hand squeezes his shoulder.

“That’s not your fault,” Techno says, at last.

Tommy’s world becomes white-noise. Like snow, he thinks, but the warmth registers first; the familiar ache of a cold combating his skin. He feels sick with it, but it ebbs away as his stomach begins to settle, leaving a hollowness that has him checking to see if he’s still whole. He doesn’t get a chance – he tries to turn his head and ends up resting it against a soft pillow, his forehead bumping against a clasp when he tries to look up.

If he listens closely, he can hear a heartbeat. Strong, steady. Familiar. _Real_.

Blue rises into his vision, pale and concerned. Tommy can’t see his own reflection in it, just the leavings of his brother. Techno comes into focus slowly; the wisps of untidied pink hair dyed yellow where the tips catch the light, the claws that dig at his skin like pins and needles stitching him back together. Caught in a riptide of awareness, Tommy anchors himself to Techno and shields himself against his brother’s chest.

“None of us are as innocent as we’d like to think we are,” Techno continues. “But being guilty of being human is okay, Tommy. People endure. They survive.”

Tommy can breathe again.

“It’s not gonna kill you, Tommy. You’ll keep going to have it hurt another day; that just means you’re living through it.”

Once he has a grip, he reaffirms it. Techno tightens his holds, pulling him closer as Tommy pushes away just enough to surface for a breath of air to fill his lungs. And then he dives into the comfort, clinging on with a silent plea to never let go.

For the first time in weeks, Tommy screams.

<>

  
  


In the time that passes, a weapon turned against others and a weapon unto himself struggle to talk. Tommy hasn’t had a proper conversation in long enough that he’s taking time to relearn it; Techno hasn’t planned to talk about the subjects that come up.

Tommy has voiced it in everything but words; he’s _scared_. He’s kept that fear been boxed into rooms, and despite his attempts to slam the doors and lock them he can’t stop hearing them pounding at the back of his mind. He knows what the knocking sounds like; Dream’s footsteps, Wilbur’s signalling voice, Tubbo’s binding breath before he speaks.

His solution to this, when Techno finds sat staring into the basement that had been his hiding spot, is to pick a fight. “I’m still angry at you, you know?”

“Are you?” Techno asks dryly, though he pauses instead of going back upstairs and minding his own business. “I think it’s rather unwarranted at this point.”

“What makes it unwarranted?” Tommy asks, “You haven’t done any different, you haven’t… repented or any of that shit, you’ve just run and hid from your problems until they go away and you can plan another fight all over again.”

“ _They_ picked this fight, Tommy.” Techno says. “In fact, you’re picking this one right now.”

“I’m not picking a fight,” Tommy defends. “I’m just stating a fact. I’m making a point. I’m just -”

“Forgetting that they have Philza?” Techno interrupts. “Forgetting that they exiled _you_?”

Tommy glares stubbornly down at the cobblestone and clay below, “Stop it.”

“You started it! You can’t have it both ways, Tommy, you can’t pick a fight with me and get upset when I fight back. I’m still mad at you, you don’t see me pitching a fit about it.”

Tommy huffs, “You just pitch a fit about having all your stuff stolen instead.”

Techno’s hands clench into fists, a reflection of his own anger and hurt mirrored right next to him. He thinks of Wilbur, going too far to ever come back the same; he thinks of Philza, keeping himself so far away it’s hard to reach out to him at all. “What’s this really about, Tommy?”

“I thought you only spoke in violence,” Tommy snarks.

“I said violence was the only universal language,” Techno corrects. “And we both share this one. You’ve dug yourself this hole, Tommy, don’t expect me to be the one to bury you in it.”

Tommy goes still, sat on the ledge with his foot catching onto the rungs of the ladder. Loss and grief lies unspoken between them; a similarity that hurts too much to face.

“Right.” Tommy says, still clinging to what fight he has left. It’s not a lot; it slips through his fingers like sand, bathed in saltwater that stings at phantom cuts. “I’ll just –“

Techno snatches the back of his collar, keeping him from descending into the basement. “No, you won’t.”

“Why not?” Tommy challenges.

“I’m not going to punish you, and I’m not going to let you punish yourself. That’s what it is, right? You can’t stop being angry if you don’t start facing it. Believe me, I’d know.”

Tommy’s leaning sideways, forcing Techno to keep him from falling into the hole. The tension between them stretches, then breaks when Tommy says, “Are you going to make me leave?”

“Are you trying to?” Techno asks. “’Cause I’m not gonna make you stay here. You’re welcome to stay, you’re welcome to leave. It’s up to you.”

Tommy makes a sound that could almost be a laugh; it’s nothing but brittle, and the last of his anger breaks with it, leaving behind a part of himself he’s been avoiding since he first started running without looking back. He hasn’t got very far. He’s gone further than he ever imagined.

“I don’t know what I want any more, Techno.” Tommy says. “Everyone else seems to want something and it’s always the opposite thing, isn’t it? And everything is different now: Wilbur’s different, Tubbo’s different, _I’m_ different. I’m mad at you, but it’s different.”

Techno stays quiet. When he tugs; Tommy follows, until they’re both sat on the floor and only the misalignment of the stone’s patterns where the basement begins and the floor ends is in sight.

Tommy hesitates, trying to find the right words. Techno waits. “Techno, please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.” Techno promises, and that’s that. Water under the bridge; onto a new day.

“I miss him.” Tommy says, raising his hands in surrender and showing where they’re stained blue from Ghostbur’s last visit; his fingers freckled with pinpricks from the thread and needle that Philza had sewn winter clothes from. He’s a partially healed mess, broken and bruised. He’s somehow, despite everything, surviving and living.

“I know,” Techno says, reaching out. Tommy leans into his side, holding on until his shaking hands are steadied. “I do too.”

“No more pits?”

“No more pits.”

They stay like that for a long time, long enough for a lifetime to pass between them. Anything else needed to be said between them is done in silence, in gentle touches and each other’s company.

“Tommy,” Techno says, when his legs threaten to fall asleep and his mind itches at him to get up and do something more. “How do you feel about a dog army?”

“ _What?”_ Tommy says, almost headbutting his brother as he looks up. “Are you for real?”

Techno is smart enough to know that the emotions are a heavy weight to carry between the two of them; a dog can learn quickly, can hunt and howl and keep Tommy company in the ways that Techno can’t.

“I’m starting to have second thoughts about this plan,” Techno admits.

“Too late,” Tommy declares, searching around for a hand to hold in his and clasp. “I’m in.”

<>

  
  


Called by old habits, Tommy sets aside a small fraction of the items before him. A little bit of string, some food that’ll wait before perishing, a failed experiment of a potion he’d made on accident.

He has his own chest, behind a bookshelf in case someone comes looking for him. He likes the open secrecy of it, even if before the idea had seemed incomprehensible.

“I stole some of your cocoa beans.” Tommy says over breakfast.

Techno glances up at him, brows furrowed. “I had cocoa beans?”

“Not any more.” Tommy chirps. “I was thinking, um, that maybe – when we get the family back together and all that… we could save it for then?”

Tommy has died and lived in vaults built for war. Techno knows the value of every enchantment, of every material that can be made into a blade, of the fine difference between a win or a loss. A chest behind a bookshelf holds sentimentality, old habits and new lessons, protected only by hope and trust.

Techno glances over at Tommy, smiling shyly, and moves his bowl away before his brother can steal even more from him. “Your hands still itchy?”

“Not really,” Tommy says. “I think this is all starting to make sense to them. It’s not surprising when the stone’s warm anymore.”

Techno hums, “Would you like me to hide the recipe, or do you want me to just hand it over?”

“Hide it.” Tommy decides, “Philza’s hot chocolate deserves better than to just be handed over like any old thing.”

“And hiding it where it’s going to be found is much better, is it?” Techno teases.

Tommy hums in concession, but ultimately lets the squabble go. He’s too tired to find it within himself to bicker – in a good way; his heart soft and his limbs loose as he sprawls across the couch and watches his brother make the plans for the day. Not much has changed, except the pillows are bulkier from Tommy sneaking more feathers into them, and the papers that build maps and memories from what had once been nothing decorate the opposite wall.

“Were you scared?” Tommy asks, though he doesn’t know why – why here, why now? “When they killed you?”

There are good days and there are bad days; between themselves and each other. Tommy still struggles to tell friend from foe, past from present; he gets confused trying to find his way and more than once gets lost in his own thoughts or the surrounding hills. Techno struggles to find a balance, overcompensating with plans that fall apart at a wrong word, a wrong time, a wrong place. They mourn a broken family, and fight with everything they have to fix what’s left of it.

“Yes,” Techno says, without looking up from his notes. “I was scared for Philza – he could’ve been next, he could’ve had to lose another son and I didn’t want to be... I’m a simple man, Tommy, I like living.”

“You like living,” Tommy echoes, contemplating that. Techno lifts his head, but an answer doesn’t come until minutes later. “I like living with you, Techno.”

“I aspire to be a good host,” Techno snorts.

“You’re a good brother,” Tommy’s quick to say, rushing the words like he’s afraid of forgetting them. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Tommy.” Techno says, a tenderness in his tone that makes Tommy smile until his cheeks ache. “You wanna come hunting with me? Might as well improve your tracking skills, for the future.”

It’s not much of a question. Tommy answers anyway, “Sure.”

“Come over here then,” Techno says, gesturing his brother over. Tommy, confused, scrambles to his feet, not needing to preserve any sleep-warmth as he sits with his back to his brother’s chest, borrowing the heat radiating off him instead. “Your hair’s been bothering you.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, reaching up to twirl the blonde locks. “Yeah, it, uh, it’s grown. I kept forgetting to cut it.”

“I noticed,” Techno says dryly. “Keep your head up and try not to move.”

“Why?” Tommy asks, but does as he’s told. Hands comb through his hair – it’s difficult not to let them pull his head back, to follow the touch so that it never leaves it – gathering up the locks and untangling the knots. His scalp tingles, but he offers no complaint as his hair is split into different sections and folded over each other, even if he curses unnecessarily at the occasional tug. “Techno, are you braiding my hair?”

“It’ll annoy you less while you’re working if you tie it back,” Techno explains, as though he needs to justify it. Tommy’s hair is still short enough that it won’t take long; Techno goes slower than he needs to, taking his time to practice holding his brother’s trust in his hands again. “You can decide if you want to cut it later. I’ll help you, if you want.”

Tommy hums in acknowledgement, closing his eyes and simply enjoying the moment. “Do you think Ghostbur remembers how to do this?”

“I don’t know.” Techno admits. “We’ll have to ask when we find him again.”

“I was thinking we should find some flowers,” Tommy voices. “Maybe we can bait him out with some blue.”

“Maybe,” Techno says. “We’ll have to see.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. Techno’s hands aren’t moving anymore; Tommy can hear his prideful humming, the melody signifying a job well-done. “Can you braid my hair again?”

“Tommy.” Techo says, “I just did it.”

“It feels weird.”

“That’s because you’re not used to tying it back.”

“Please?”

Techno sighs, light and amused as he unravels the braid. “If you’re expecting me to get this absolutely perfect, we’re going to be stuck here for a while.”

“That’s fine.” Tommy grins. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”


End file.
